


Turning Coffee Into Theorems

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: mcsmooch, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-14
Updated: 2008-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:27:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A mathematician is a device for turning coffee into theorems." - Alfréd Rényi</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turning Coffee Into Theorems

**Author's Note:**

> For Cate, with thanks to Aesc for betaing.

Rodney's right in the middle of one of the low-grade crises which characterise life on Atlantis when he realises it. The readings on the supply systems leading from the ZPM are shading just a little bit too high—not high enough to mean that they will all die a gory death in the next twenty-four hours, but high enough to encourage his blood pressure in a similar direction, because if he doesn't get it fixed soon, it _will_ mean a gory death a week next Tuesday. It takes longer than it should, as if the city is working to thwart him at every turn, to make him work late into the night, and so it's a very frustrated and cranky Rodney who is horrified when he takes a swig from Radek's coffee mug on Monday afternoon.

"Decaf!?" he yelps, like it's the worst form of betrayal, an _et tu, brute_ of the soul, because he knows that Radek's views on the dreaded not-coffee are as vehement as his own.

Radek spreads his hands and explains that he is not drinking it willingly—there is no real coffee left in the city. The busy few weeks just past had led to people consuming twice as much as normal, and given how much Rodney drinks in a _normal_ week, well....

Radek, the weasel, makes sure that there's a desk between him and Rodney when he breaks the news that there will be no more coffee until the _Daedalus_ arrives in ten days' time.

Rodney stares at him in horror for a long moment before dropping his whiteboard marker to the floor with a clatter and setting off on a hunt for anything with caffeine in it: through all the cupboards in the labs, all the drawers and cubby holes and nooks that Radek thinks he doesn't know about (ha!). He finds six staplers, a menu for an Indian takeout restaurant in Detroit—which makes him feel a little hungry—and one lonely coffee filter sitting at the bottom of Miko's desk drawer, but no coffee.

He hustles out of the lab and back to his quarters—but though he looks under his bed, rummages through his sock drawer and scrabbles through his piles of maybe-someday-to-be-published papers, all his coffee reserves seem to have vanished. Casualties, he realises, of the three days he spent trying to free some of the Marines from a stasis machine; the frantic twelve hours it took him to stop the puddlejumpers from self-destructing; the Thursday when occurred what John has taken to calling the Intergalactic Noodle Incident.

To the gateroom, then, to shake down Chuck; to Elizabeth's office, in a fruitless attempt to see if he could wrangle one last cup out of her; but even when he stands in the middle of the mess hall, all he can smell is something that might just meet federal regulations to be described as 'food', and the sickeningly healthy smell of herbal tea.

Rodney whimpers.

Shoulders slumping in defeat, he trudges over to fetch himself a plateful of rubbery lasagne—if he's not going to get any coffee, he might as well have some carbohydrates—and a sideplate piled high with salad because he can _see_ Ronon eyeing him from across the room. He gets a large glass of water as well, mostly because the only other drink on offer is camomile tea, and accepting that would just be admitting defeat.

He shovels it down before heading back to the lab, and is about five steps from the door when he smells it. _It_. Poking his head through the archway, he sees Radek sitting at his desk, John leaning against it, a smirk on his face that only fades when he raises the cup in his hand and opens his mouth so that he can drain the last of the—

"Moka Sumatra Blend Dark Roast?" Rodney knows his voice must convey equal parts betrayal and want—that particular blend is a favourite of his, the strongest, darkest coffee he's ever had, so strong he's a little wary to put it in an enamel cup for fear the liquid will eat right through it. It's _perfect_.

"Yeah," John shrugs, setting the now-empty cup down on the edge of Radek's desk before scratching behind one ear. "Little strong for me, but the guys in the mess said that was all we had left."

"Moka Sumatra Blend Dark Roast?" Rodney repeats. It's a coffee so strong that if you stick a spoon in it, it'll stand up straight.

"Yup."

"And you drank the last of it."

"Yeah," John says, dragging the word out a little bit, tone as wary as the arch of his eyebrow.

"And you don't even _like_ it?!" Out of the corner of his eye, Rodney can see Radek beat a strategic retreat from the lab, dragging Miko behind him. Coward.

John rolls his eyes and then makes his fatal mistake. "It's just _coffee_, Rodney."

"I—" Rodney begins. "You— That's—" For the first time in his life, words have failed him; for the first time in his life, he has some sympathy with all those blow-hard television pundits who jump up and down and turn red in the face when someone says something they consider blasphemous—because coffee is one of the tenets of his faith; it's a right guaranteed by the Geneva Convention and if it's not it should be; it's _coffee_. "Take that back!" he manages after far too long, one index finger upheld and quivering, a righteous punctuation mark.

"_Rod_ney," John says, mouth quirking up in a lopsided grin.

"Don't you Rodney me!" He can feel the beginning of a headache, a tightening in his temples. God, it's probably caffeine withdrawal beginning. He hasn't suffered from caffeine withdrawal since 1985.

"Okay then," John says mildly. "Meredith."

Rodney stares at him, mouth working noiselessly. He actually went there, and there's far too much blood in Rodney's caffeine system for him to be able to cope with John being, being—well, _Sheppard-ish_. It's infuriating at the best of times, and right now it's making Rodney feel like he's working on an aneurysm, so he realises he's going to have to balance the situation as best he can.

Rodney reaches out and grabs John by the worn cotton of his t-shirt and pulls so that John stumbles towards him. He ignores the soft noise John makes in favour of making sure that their bodies are pressed close together, wrapping his arms around John's back to pull all of that long, lean warmth to him. They're in the public labs, where anyone could walk in and see, but Rodney kisses him regardless, licks at John's lips—a little chapped, but warm, and tasting of the coffee that Rodney chases into John's mouth.

John's hands come to rest on Rodney's hips, tentative at first and then more firmly. His head tilts a little to one side, inviting just enough, and Rodney moans. He can smell the coffee on John, an aphrodisiac as good as the feel of John's body, the warmth of his skin, under Rodney's hands; the scrape of his stubble against Rodney's; how green his eyes are, seen this close to, how soft his smile. By the time Rodney pulls back a little, just enough so that he can breathe, John's eyes are closed, his hips rocking minutely against Rodney's, and Rodney thinks he might have over-dosed—feels his heart race a little too fast, more than caffeine, a stimulant too far—and when John looks him in the eye, Rodney stares back, and licks at his lower lip.


End file.
